


Outfoxed

by LadyoftheLostandFound



Series: The Wolf of the Rift [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Biting, Blacksmith - Freeform, Brynjolf is a bastard and we love him, Capture, Cock & Ball Torture, Domination, Edging, Felnore really wants to eat Brynjolf, M/M, Male Slash, Masterbation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgasm Control, Ownership, Submission, Tethering, Thieves Guild, Topping, Werewolf Reveal, Werewolf Sex, Werewolf Turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-08 01:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18622159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheLostandFound/pseuds/LadyoftheLostandFound
Summary: Brynjolf has a score to settle and he is going to settle it his way.With the Thieves Guild in dire straits, he must find someone to break the curse that has taken its toll on the once powerful subterranean enterprise.  Brynjolf is desperate enough to bet it all on a very dark horse, even if that horse wants him dead.Sometimes, it takes the cursed to kill a curse, and who better to pull it off than a man who has been touched by a Daedric Prince? But is Brynjolf clever enough to pull off the impossible without having to pay a heavy price?This is what happens when a sneaky fox tries to outsmart a big ol' papa wolf.(This is an off-shoot scene that was cut from the "Wolf of Riften" storyline.)





	1. Felnore

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Brynjolf...why, why are you such a stinker!?!?!
> 
> How we love that sneaky red-headed thief.
> 
> This little off-shoot number is a few scenes/chapters that did not make the final cut for the "Wolf of Riften" main storyline that I am currently working on. More specifically, this is the original draft where Brynjolf discovers that Felnore is more than just a blacksmith with anger management issues, but is rather in-fact, a man-eating werewolf. 
> 
> I enjoyed plotting out this little scenario so much that I could not just throw it away. So I thought that you all might like it. Think of it as a tasty appetizer, before the actual main course event. After all, Brynjolf still needs to get Felnore to join the Thieve's Guild somehow, and he is not above blackmail and bondage. (ahem)
> 
> So, this is what happens when Brynjolf has time for you and also has a score to settle. I still don't know if I should be miffed, turned on, or afraid for man. Bup! He's complicated. Felnore is not. Together, legendary shenanigans occur. 
> 
> How I love these two demented dorks. Enjoy the chaos!

Underneath a moldy burlap hood, Felnore inhaled the rank dampness that could only be the city's sewers. The ripe stink of stagnant water and foul air made it difficult for his nose to differentiate between the refuse of the city inhabitants and the crafty brethren that made their home in the warren of unused tunnels below the city's surface. It made his eyes water just to breathe through his nose.

Felnore tried to lift his hand but no such luck. There were heavy leather bindings on his wrists and ankles. The tightness across his chest and the foreign weight around his neck kept his spine rigid and pressed into the wooden hardness at his back. He was seated, bound to a heavy wooden chair, and had no idea how he had gotten there.

The last thing he could remember was the soft tread of cautious feet and a blur of movement in the deep shadows of the canal boardwalk. A steady throb on the back of his head was a reassuring reminder that he was not losing his mind but only had it scrambled from a well-placed blow that must have laid him flat.

Felnore swallowed but the sour taste of old tanned goat hide made him cough. A thick leather braid was wedged between his teeth and try as he might, there was no way to work his tongue around it. Whoever had pulled a fast one on him was not taking any chances.

"Got his arms? An’ his legs?”

"He's secured."

"I dunno about this.”

"Delvin."

"You sure you know what you're doin'? Does Mercer even know about what you're up to?"

"I know what I’m about Delvin. Don't worry about Mercer. There won't be any slip-ups this time.”

“Them's famous last words.”

Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, there was nothing Felnore could do but listen to the voices that echoed off the stone walls around him. The dock accent sounded familiar, but he could not put a name to it. The smooth brogue lit of the second speaker, however, was one he knew all too well.

Brynjolf. That damned sly fox.

The thief had made sure that it impossible for him to move, but that did not stop Felnore from trying.

"Well now, looks like someone is finally awake." The all-too-memorable scent of oiled leather, earth, and smoke grew stronger.

Felnore could feel the air shift on his skin as the clever thief moved in close. Only then did Felnore realized that he had been stripped down to his skin.

That sneaking son-of-a-…

Felnore did not hold back the dangerous growl that rumbled deep within his chest.

"Make sure you keep a tight leash on this one, Brynjolf. Remember, the bastard bites." Delvin warned.

"How could I forget?" Brynjolf’s tone was anything but pleasant.

Felnore was silenced when a rough hand yanked tight on the collar around his neck. He did not have to see the man to want to kill him the moment the opportunity presented itself.

This time, Felnore would make sure his teeth found their proper mark in that green-eyed swain's tender throat.

"You sure don't need a hand with this? The torturin' and all? You've only got the one good hand as it is."

Felnore's ears pricked up at Delvin's words. Only one good hand? So, the thieving wretch had yet to figure out a way to reverse the damage that Felnore had inflicted as payback for the stunt Brynjolf pulled. Brynjolf had made the grave mistake of taking from Felnore what he treasured deeply. His wedding band, which had remained a permanent fixture on his hand since the day his late wife wrenched it onto his finger twelve years ago.

Serves the bastard right. Felnore hoped the hand festered and had to be cut off. He would be more than happy to sharpen the axe needed for the job.

"I'm certain I will be fine, Delvin. Even with one hand, I'm still the best. Leave us, and whatever you hear, make sure that I am not interrupted. You do not open that door. Understood? This could take a while."

Felnore uttered another growl, this one a clear threat, as he tested the strength of his bindings. The leather straps creaked from the pressure, but they had no room for any give. If he was going to have to fight his way free, he would need to find some way to break the chair limbs because the straps held fast.

The slam of a heavy wooden door, followed by iron bolt, made Felnore tense against his bindings. He growled a third time, and the sound carried the canine promise of slow retribution. Strapped down to a chair, unable to see, to fight back, the thief was going to pay with his life for this.

"Here then, let's have a look at you."

The hood was pulled off and Felnore's thick grey hair fell about his shoulders in a tangled mess. A strip of cloth was wound across his eyes, but at least now he could breathe a little easier without having to inhale through the sack.

Brynjolf’s hand came to rest on his head and Felnore went still. Curious fingers grazed the long strands of his hair as they combed through the snags, trailing down the length of his neck, before working the braids at his temples free of their decorative bindings. Felnore could only wonder where the thief had gotten the nerve to touch him like this. To pet him, caress him, like he would a common street mutt. He bristled from the indignity of it all.

How dare the thief touch him.

Felnore curled his lips as he was grabbed roughly by the beard and his chin jerked upward. It was impossible not to wince before the rough calloused fingertips found the exposed pulse-point just under his chin.

"So, you do enjoy pain. Well, blacksmith, I am fairly certain we can find some common ground that suits us both."

Brynjolf's voice was a low murmur in Felnore’s ear as the blindfold was slowly removed. When Felnore was finally able open his eyes, two bright green eyes peered into his. Twin emeralds that glinted of dark promises yet to be revealed.

"Hello Greymane. Did you miss me?"

Felnore glared at Brynjolf before he swallowed hard and choked. Small rounded studs were imbedded into the inner seam of the leather around his throat. His skin began to sting whenever they touched his skin. It took him a few seconds to figure out why.

The studs were made of silver.

Brynjolf's smile broadened until it touched the crow's-feet at the corner of his eyes. "I think you did."


	2. Brynjolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never get on Brynjolf's black list. The man is a genius and holds a grudge harder than the Thalmor hates the worship of Talos. So every time Bryn says that he's the best at something, he's not lying. The man is actually that good at what he does.
> 
> As for Felnore, fighting off the agents of the Silver Hand is something he can handle. But facing off with the Prince of Thieves who an ulterior motive? I think our Papa Wolf may be in deep trouble.

Minutes became hours, and hours fell into seconds, as the two men studied one another. A decade could have come and gone and the only movement in the secured chamber was the lazy flicker that was cast from the lit torches on the walls. Brynjolf stood, legs apart and arms crossed, as he studied the sight before him. Every detail was stored away in his vast memory, to be dissected and studied for future use. The creeping redness along the collar line amused him to no end, as did the murderous intentions that were lined in every tendon and strained muscle in Felnore's impressive figure.

Brynjolf had his suspicions and it appeared that his hunch had been correct. The man bound to the liar's chair had secrets. Dark ones that ran deep into the soul. Some of them could probably cost him his life if brought to light. Secrets like that were a powerful but dangerous currency in his line of work and had to be treated carefully.

There would always be someone who would be willing to pay a dear amount to gain access to such things.

But the secret of the ancient ring? That one would be Brynjolf's alone to covet. It was a good one. He could feel the certainty of it in the ripple of energy that came off of the blacksmith in waves. That was why the ring remained where it was. Brynjolf knew better than to attempt to remove it by force a second time.

Brynjolf's gaze lowered as he eyed the five long claw marks that were entrenched across Felnore's naked chest. He had spent long hours mulling over the cause of them. He was fairly confident that he had his answer, but he was not someone who left things to mere chance. He had to make sure that what he thought was true.

"It's been a while. I'm glad to see that you are in such fine form. Especially after what happened in Whiterun. That was a bit of nasty business. Half the city destroyed, countless killed in the crossfire. A real shame. Is that where you got this one? I don't remember seeing it before." He stroked the spiderweb of burn scars that snaked along Felnore's left shoulder. He chuckled when the muscle spasmed under his touch. It was still new and tender.

"And what about this?" His right hand pressed against the raised white triangle on Felnore's thigh. "This looks recent. A sword thrust. No, an arrow. You're lucky it missed the knee. Those wounds rarely, if ever, heal properly."

The nerves in Felnore's leg twitched in agitation as the muscles strained against the fretters that kept the limb immobile. Brynjolf tutted under his breath as Felnore tried, and failed again, to use his considerable strength against the bindings. It was always the fighting types that believed that every predicament could be solved with a weapon or a fist. That was what made them predictable.

Brynjolf was never predictable. That would be boring and an utter waste of his princely gifts. He delighted in the art of improvisation. All he needed was a cue and the rest he would take in hand and steer the situation in whichever direction suited him best. So, when Felnore began to gnaw on the braided gag in his mouth, Brynjolf stepped into the scene and took control.

The knife he withdrew from his belt was a small simple piece. It barely had a sharpened edge to it. A threat to cooked fish perhaps, but nothing more. And yet when he placed the rounded tip onto the most prominent of the claw marks, Felnore grunted in surprise. Brynjolf studied the reaction as he held the knife in place. He did not break skin or even press down with effort. And still Felnore hissed behind the gag.

"So, the stories are true after all. Wolves do walk the halls of Jorrvaskr wearing the guise of men. I wonder, do all of the Companions howl for Hircine, or is it just a select few?"

The longer the knife remained in contact with the skin, the greater Felnore's reaction became. First came the grunting, and then the growling. It wasn't until Brynjolf had Felnore gasping through the pain of his touch that he made his next move. Whereas the rounded studs that circled the inside of the collar were merely coated in silver, the small knife was made from the purest form of the element.

No werewolf could withstand the touch of silver for too long. Not even one of the fabled Whiterun wolves.

Redness and a raised welt swiftly appeared as the dull blade traced the deep scar from shoulder to hip. A fine sheen of sweat soon followed as Brynjolf dragged the knife slowly down another scar. And then another. Felnore's body was covered in them. He took his time as he worked, easing the blade over every divot and crevice. He held the knife like a painter's brush. Each touch was a soft caress, each direction was a sweep across a raised canvas. Scars, old and new, received his utter attention until the upper half of Felnore's body looked like an inflamed roadmap of his life.

Pleased by his work, Brynjolf stood back to admire the view. The bright scarlet against the pale background of skin was striking, made even more-so by the silver curtain of hair that framed it all. This was a vision that he set firmly in his memory.

"It's rather funny, when you think about it. There are those who hunt you down with dogs, and spears, and small armies. They are the ones that never make it out of the encounter alive. And yet here you are, bested by a butter knife. I don't know if I should feel flattered or disappointed." He scratched his chin with his left hand and winced. The encounter with Felnore's hammer had left his hand twisted and claw-like. It had been nearly a month and still his hand was swollen to twice its normal size and practically useless since he could only move two of his fingers. Linen bandages wound tight kept everything where it should be, but the final verdict was not promising.

His hand was ruined. Just like his career as a professional thief.

Maybe he should return the gesture in some way?

Brynjolf ran his tongue across his teeth and shook his head at the notion. It was tempting. Very temping. But that would not do. No, he needed his hound to be able to run, not be crippled by a limp. There was no profit in damaged goods and Brynjolf's bottom line was always about turning a profit.

"Greymane, wake up. We're just getting started. There's a lad, focus on me. That's right."

Gentle in his actions, Brynjolf patted Felnore on the cheek until his eyes lost that glazed haze of clouded pain that had sent him into a numbed stupor. When Felnore began to stir, Brynjolf snagged a wooden stool with the toe of his boot and dragged it toward him.

"Now then," he carefully sat so that he was positioned between Felnore's knees, "I rather enjoyed that. Honestly, I could do it all night and never get bored. We can continue if you like. I always knew you were going to be fun. Ever since that first night we met. And I can promise you this. We are going to have plenty of fun together, my fine bearded friend. Just you and I."

Brynjolf leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as he brought his face in close to Felnore's.

"You wouldn't know this, but when I was a lad, I had a dog. Big shaggy hound, head like a pumpkin, jaws of a bear. Ugly looking brute by everyone's standard. In a way, you sort of remind me of him. His fur was the same colour as your hair."

Seeing how Felnore bit off his ear the last time he was in such close proximity to the man's mouth, Brynjolf expected a sudden reaction. And it came, even though he refused to acknowledge it. After all, he and Delvin were masters of their craft. There was no possible way for Felnore to work his way free from that chair once they had him strapped in. So when Felnore lunged forward, Brynjolf just waited for the struggling to cease. The blacksmith could snarl and curse all he wanted, but it would not do him an ounce of good.

It did amuse Brynjolf to no end to see how easy it was to get under the man's skin. An unwarranted touch, a knowing look, and a few choice words was all he needed to get the man to pull against the collar, like a dog on a chain.

"He saved my life once." Brynjolf continued, only this time he began to toy with a strand of Felnore's hair. "Killed a young saber cat that had decided I would make for a tasty meal. I loved that mongrel, in the way all young boys love their childhood pets. I was crushed when he died. That animal was the most loyal companion I have ever had. I still have the collar."

Brynjolf slid the silver knife into his leather arm guard for safe keeping before he rested his good hand on Felnore's knee.

"Do you know what made him so loyal?" Brynjolf asked, knowing full well that he would get no response. "I made him that way. Trained him. Disciplined him. Loved him. If he so much as put a toe out of line, I corrected him. For nine years that dog believed the sun rose and set because of my say so. He did not eat or sleep without my command. I was just a boy. And he was just a dog."

He could feel the searing heat from Felnore's gaze as he traced that triangle shaped scar on Felnore's thigh with his forefinger. Brynjolf smiled to himself as his finger slid along the well-toned curvature of the muscles before he took a firm hold of Felnore's nethers. His grip was solid and his arm steady when the expected knee-jerk reaction came. The snarls of outrage were matched with a measured patience that no amount of nerve-grating growling could erode.

He had Felnore by the bollocks and the man knew it.

"As you can see, I am no longer a boy and you are certainly no dog. This is the sort of challenge that I excel at, so I am ready to give it a go. I always get what I want, Felnore Greymane. I know your name. I know who you are and what you are. I know what it is you secretly wish for. I know everything about you. I know that you would do anything to protect those daughters of yours. I know better than to ever threaten them, but I also know that if word ever got out in this city that there was a werewolf living topside, your life would be forfeit, as would theirs. I also know that Riften city is filled with people on the surface who do not take kindly to anyone…different. They don't like monsters. They don't like fiends like you and I, the ones who live in the dark places, because we make them nervous. They routinely kill thieves. Did you know that? We are shot down in the streets like rabid dogs as soon as they see us. So, imagine what they would do to you if they knew? What they would do to little Eva, to Jonna. The older one's got quite the stubborn streak. Yes, I know of them. I told you, I know everything."

The moment hung heavy between them as Brynjolf let his words sink in. His fingers slowly began to massage the two large testicles that sat heavy in his palm. He had no idea how the man could sit a horse without severely injuring himself every time he was jostled in the saddle. Part of him wanted to find out how right then.

"What do you want?"

The words were muffled by the gag but Brynjolf heard him clear enough.

"Isn't it obvious?" He mused as he gave Felnore a firm squeeze. "You. All of you."


	3. Felnore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit Brynjolf! Why did you think this was a good idea? Why?!?!
> 
> I warned him. Did I not warn him? That man will not listen to reason and now he's wolf-bait. This is why you Do. Not. Piss. Felnore. Off.
> 
> Enjoy the ensuing chaos! Whew, I need a drink.

The man was insane. He had to be.

A shudder tore through Felnore's body as he inhaled sharply under the expert touch of the thief's grasp. Bryjolf's fingers wrapped around his shaft slowly undid the protective mantle of self-control that Felnore wore with a burdened purpose. Each long calculated stroke peeled away a layer that he refused to willingly give up because to do so would bring forth disaster.

"What are-...you...doing!" Felnore gasped through the gag.

"Oh, I think you know."

The smirk on Brynjolf's lips was all-knowing as his fingers flexed to emphasize his words.

Felnore shut his eyes and tried to ground his mind in the harsh reality of the situation but it was damn near impossible. With one hand, Brynjolf had coxed his body into utter betrayal. The secret that he had sworn to protect, the one that that existed inside himself, was on full display across his scorched chest. Somehow Brynjolf had worked out just how easy it was to expose the truth and there was nothing Felnore could have done to prevent it. But if the thief delved any deeper, he was going to desperately regret it.

They both would.

"S-stop." The plea hitched in his throat as his shoulders pressed into the rough wooden back of the heavy chair. "You...have to...too...dangerous..."

The pad of Brynjolf's thumb swept over with the smooth head of Felnore's cock with a sure grace that buried whatever Felnore tried to say under the deep groan of primal need. Already, he was hard to the point of mindlessness. As Brynjolf continued to drag him to edge of total release with those clever fingers, Felnore could not hold back the darkness that tinted his sight for much longer. It would consume him and then it would consume the world.

"I have to...what? What is it I have to do Greymane?"

The hand that controlled the speed of Felnore's galloping heart gripped harder before releasing him. A whimper of relief turned into a snarl of pain as the gut-stabbing sting of silver engulfed the over-stimulated nerve-endings in his member. It was all Felnore could do to keep from screaming as the hellish agony of the silver's torturous kiss lanced up into his brain and held him rigid.

"Well?"

Brynjolf's voice overrode the shattered thrumming in Felnore's chest. The only reply he could give was a mangled cry as smell of leather, sweat, and sex suddenly became overpowering. His body arched and spasmed under the restraints as hooked nails dug into the solid armrests and gouged grooves into the wood. The ache in his sinuses attacked with a viciousness that was not human. The pain behind his eyes blinded him to everything but the smell of himself on Brynjolf's skin. His seed in the other man's hand. The hand that had branded a claim into his flesh.

The scent of fear and fury was intoxicating. It woke an all-consuming hunger in him that pooled in his belly before it sunk lower into his loins. The length of him grew rigid and erect, engorged with a surge of blood that left him breathless. Despite the forced climax, the power between his legs was not satiated.

 _Grrr._  More!

The throbbing ache in Felnore's teeth made him salivate through the leather. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth and ran into the length of his beard as his shoulders relaxed. His head fell forward while his face remained hidden under the darkened shroud of sweat-soaked hair. The exploratory touch on the back of his head did not register nor did the whisper of movement as the metal buckle at the back of his neck was adjusted before the collar was taken off.

A wheezing gasp escaped his throat as his lungs expanded. The collar had suddenly become too tight.

"Breathe lad."

Felnore's nose twitched as it zeroed in on the heated blood that coursed through the thief's veins. Veins so close that he could hear their tempting call. Rapid heart. Steady breath. Felnore could smell the man's arousal and it matched his own.

"Remarkable." There was fascination in those words as fingers bearing his scent stroked the length of his pointed ear, moving with the velvet strands of fur instead of against them. Under his hair, blackened lips peeled back in a dead man's grimace as lengthening molars shredded the leather gag like old parchment.

The sharpened curve of an upper fang pierced the gum line as the too-large teeth shifted into their proper place. Blood coated his tongue and the coppery taste made his face itch. The skull of a man sharpened and morphed into the muzzle of a wolf. When he finally turned his head, the broad planes of his lengthening snout stretched out toward the hand that had unknowingly freed him.

 _GRRR!_  No touch!

Jaws snapped and teeth found their mark. Leather and flesh were torn as wood creaked and splintered under severe stress. The bindings that had held the man captive were slashed with fang and claw by a wolf that refused to be restrained.

 _GRAWR!_   _FREE!_

The grey wolf's presence filled the room as a deep baritone howl herald his freedom for all to hear. He shook out his fur to get rid of the lingering remnants of human emotion that clung to the edge of his mind before he lifted his tail and let loose a growl that shook the very foundation that Riften city was built upon.

 _Sniff._  Fox. Bite. 

The seeking heat of burning amber eyes reflected the torchlight as his massive head swung around until Brynjolf stood before him, pressed flat against the stone wall with his bloodied forearm cradled to his chest with his ruined left hand.

Blood. Hurt.

Deadly teeth flashed in a wolfish grin as Felnore reared up onto his hind-legs and stretched out to his full height. The top of his skull brushed the chiseled ceiling and folded his ears back onto his head. The shadow cast by the flickering firelight swallowed the thief and loomed up the wall like a wolf-shaped tapestry. One hard sniff and the wolf understood everything.

_Mine._


End file.
